


Capricious Providence

by last_illusions (injured_eternity)



Series: Capricious Providence [1]
Category: Burn Notice, NCIS
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Crossover, Gen, Inconvenient Work Encounters, Pre-show, Spy Problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-05
Updated: 2009-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/injured_eternity/pseuds/last_illusions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're two strangers having a casual conversation, but he's itching to call her bluff. It's summer in Lebanon in the 1990s, and two undercover operatives find themselves keeping strange company. Spoilers for <i>Burn Notice</i> 3x01, Friends and Family</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capricious Providence

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-show for both fandoms. For boosette on LJ, who watched the third season premiere and asked for crossover fic with Ziva and Michael in Lebanon. I don't think this is quite what she expected--truthfully it's not quite what I expected, either--but here you are.

Lebanon summers are brutal: hot, dry, and unrelenting. By the time evening sets in, anyone not local is desperate for cool, but everything—streets, buildings, cars, anything the sun has touched during the day—radiates heat well into the night, forming a blanket over any given city. It's like goose down in hundred-degree weather, and your only hope is a strong fan, or air conditioning if you're really lucky.

An American leaves the Hotel Albergo around 1930h; he's nondescript, blending into the crowd with the ease of long years of practise. Hands casually in the pockets of his slacks, he scans the street surreptitiously, constantly grateful for the reassuring weight of the Beretta hidden at the small of his back. It's not his service-issue, but he's the only one who needs to know that.

He throws a glance over his shoulder under the pretense of looking into a store window, mildly surprised that his partner hasn't called him yet. But nowhere in his contract did it state he was to babysit Harlan (or the other way around), and he was courteous enough to leave a note on his coffee table. The man would sneak in at some point; he might as well save him the trouble of looking. The last person he wants to actually spend time with tonight is Harlan, though, which is why the note directs his partner in the _other_ direction, and he himself slips quietly into a crowded bar half a mile from the hotel.

His eyes sweep over the crowd in one smooth movement: he's here as an American businessman, but that doesn't mean he's at all lacking in enemies. When nothing (and no _one_ ) jumps out at him, he makes his way to the bar and orders a beer. Something stronger is tempting, but he can't afford it—not here, not yet. He takes the only open stool, his back against the wall, and tosses a grin at the bartender when his glass appears. The liquid is blissfully cold, and he stifles a sigh. There are no targets here tonight, and he takes advantage of that fact with studied silence. He's been talking all day, and it's a blessing to stop.

Not ten minutes later, the seat next to him is vacated and filled again in a matter of seconds, like clockwork or the tide or a well-choreographed dance team. He knows it's just the fact that claiming a seat here is more difficult than you'd think (five minutes was enough to tell him that), but he can't help but glance at the new occupant.

And struggle not to do a double take.

She's a spy. He knows that immediately, as certainly as he knows his name is Michael Westen. It's nothing she says; it's not even anything she does, and only another spy would have made her. It's in the set of the shoulders, subtle, muscles taut; it's deep in the eyes, the carriage of the body—veiled, vigilant; it's in the attitude, the one that invites only targets (where applicable) and informants and drives other people away for reasons they can't quite name.

Every one of them has it, to some degree; every one of them can recognise it, to some degree; very few of them ever call the bluff of another, because to be wrong is to risk signing your own death warrant. Only the best can come close to hiding it; only the best can spot it every time; and only the best ever dare to call another operative to the carpet.

" _Marhaban_ ," he says with a smile, toasting her with his glass.

She will speak Arabic, he knows without a doubt. She is not native to Beirut or anywhere else in Lebanon, but her home is somewhere in the Middle East, and she would not be here if she did not speak one or more of Lebanon's adopted languages.

She nods, responding in kind as she assesses him with dark eyes.

"You are American."

There is a measure of surprise in this assessment, and his smile turns into a grin. "I am." The grin becomes cheeky. "You are not."

The utter absurdity of that statement draws a brief, surprised laugh from her, though he thinks to himself she doesn't laugh often.

"I am not," she agrees, reaching up to brush a loose strand of wavy dark hair back behind her ear.

There's not another strand out of place in her neat bun, and he finds himself thinking she and Fiona would be a lethal pair. He stops that train of thought, though—Fiona Glenanne is not here, and he can't afford to start thinking about what ifs and could have beens.

"Michael," he offers impulsively, holding out his hand. He shouldn't, and his training is yelling this in his ear, but he chooses to ignore it even though it might bite him in the ass later.

"Ziva," she answers after a moment, taking his proffered hand. "Enjoying your stay?"

"Oh, boiling to death in deserts is a hobby." He takes another sip of his beer. "And you?"

"I grew up in the desert—the heat does not bother me."

Indeed, it's still over ninety outside, and in a tank top and cargo pants, she's not even broken a sweat.

"The city is nice," she continues, like that's actually an answer. "Beirut has changed much in the last decade."

"How could you tell?" he drawls wryly. He remembers it well—and wishes he didn't.

He nods at the bartender for another beer; two will be his limit for the night unless he wants trouble.

"What are you doing here?" he asks after a moment.

"Visiting family," she lies. It's well practised and comes off smoothly. He almost believes her. "And you?"

Her return of his earlier question does not escape him, but he doesn't call her on it. "Business," he tells her, which is partly true. "International banking," he adds, which is a blatant lie. It's also a key part of maintaining general cover: enough detail to keep someone from getting suspicious, but not so much they can track you down and point out all the holes in your story.

"Good markets."

"Very."

They're two strangers having a casual conversation, but he's itching to call her bluff. He tells himself it's the alcohol and exhaustion talking (he has, after all, been up for more than twenty-four hours), finishes his beer, buys her another drink, tips the bartender, and excuses himself. He won't be seeing her again.

( _Capricious Providence_ )

Three days later, he laughs at himself. Or rather, he would if he wasn't pinned against a wall in a closet with a knife at his throat.

"Why are you following me?" Ziva hisses in his ear, each word pronounced and singular. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he recognises that English is not her native language.

"I'm _not_ ," he says, slow, deliberate, and placating. He takes a deep mental breath, because an actual deep breath would kill him, and jumps over the proverbial cliff. "We're following the same person."

The pressure on his throat lessens just a fraction in surprise, and he takes his opening. In a moment, he has her knife and she's the one in a chokehold. He tips his weight onto his heels so she can't throw him over her shoulder and puts his mouth next to her ear—a fraction of a millimetre and they'd be touching.

"Who are you and why are you following Jonathon Kassab?"

"I am not following him."

His arm tightens just a fraction. "You're just conveniently in _every_ location he happens to be in."

"If you think so."

Again, his grip tightens. "You can do better than that, Ziva."

There's a long, pregnant pause, and then she takes the same jump he did not five minutes ago. "I am Mossad."

He doesn't make her mistake; his grip stays in place. "And I'm the Israeli Prime Minister's son."

He can _feel_ her rolling her eyes. "I am Mossad," she repeats, slowly, like he didn't hear her the first time. "My badge is in my right pocket."

He knows she's telling the truth; that doesn't make him stupid enough to let her go for her gun, so he fishes it out himself. Ziva David, Mossad. Privately, he grins: he was right, and he's heard of her. She doesn't crack easily, and he's absurdly pleased with himself for calling her bluff now.

"Well, Officer David," he drawls in her ear, "what does Mossad want with Jonathon Kassab?"

Saying "Mossad" and "Kassab" without the interruption of "Jonathon" would rhyme too well, and breaking out laughing wouldn't do anything at all for his image.

"The same thing the CIA wants," she says, and he grins into her hair.

"And what does the CIA want?"

"What it wants," she snaps. When he loosens his grip, she ducks out and spins around, glaring.

"Verthine Industries." She's given some; it's only polite to give back.

"Which will slow down Bulgaria." Clearly, she was given the same international espionage etiquette handbook.

He lets himself grin. "So Israel _is_ worried about Bulgaria."

"If the US is not, it is more of a fool than we thought."

"I don't kiss and tell, Officer David," he tells her with a smirk.

She continues to glare. "When is your deadline?"

"Tomorrow."

"Since we both want him dead, you should let me go."

"What for? I already planted the explosives."

The glare holds for a brief second in which she processes that. It's followed by dawning, grudging respect. "If you cannot see—"

"When he's _in_ his office? I wasn't born yesterday, Officer," he points out. "My partner has the feed. We just need—"

"Snipers on his partner? My people are already there."

"Then the only reason we're _here_ —" He gestures around them. "—is because you're a little trigger-happy with this knife."

He hands it back to her, she glares, he resists the urge to tell her her face might freeze like that if she's not careful, and she places her ear to the door. A moment later, she opens it and steps out; he follows.

Then they're outside of the building and he's back to Harlan in the sedan they rented, while she slips around the corner to a small grey SUV. Ten minutes later, Mossad fires the shot that kills Leron Antar, and the CIA detonates the explosive that kills Jonathon Kassab. Neither of them will be missed.

( _Capricious Providence_ )

"I made you the other night," he says, hours later.

They're back at the same bar and have been for some time, only now they have a booth in the far corner instead of places at the bar. He got there first, so he's the one with his back to the wall and a full view of the rest of the bar. She hates him for it, but she cannot complain, so she compromises, sitting sideways, back pressed against the side of the booth.

"As did I," she answers, sipping at a frozen margarita in an attempt to combat the desert heat.

"Just so we're clear."

The grin is cocky and flippant, blue eyes sharply assessing. Apparently, his gaze lingers too long, because she turns to face him.

"Yes?"

He shakes his head. "You remind me of someone I know."

"I'm sure she misses you."

A pause; then, "No, she doesn't."

If he were the sort to pick one-night stands, this would be where he'd start trying to get her back to his room, but he's not, so he just leaves the comment hanging. To her credit, she doesn't harangue him about it. She just nods.

"I am sorry."

And that's all. He appreciates it, but he doesn't have to say that for her to know.

"How long have you been here?"

"Five minutes before you got here."

That glare of hers is fixed back on him. "That is not what I meant."

He grins again. "I know." She throws her lime at him because he's too far away for her to hit without climbing over the table. "Just shy of a week."

"Five days."

It surprises him, because he didn't ask, and he knows her reputation well enough to know she doesn't often volunteer information. He keeps his expression carefully bland, though—it wouldn't do for her to _know_ she surprised him. Before either of them can speak again, her phone is going off to let her know her flight is waiting, so even though the conversation feels like it's left hanging, there's no time to finish it. He nods at her.

"It was nice meeting you."

"And you."

She pushes herself out of her seat, but he waves away the money she tries to put down.

"It's on me."

Hesitation; then, "Thank you."

"No problem."

He waits until her back is turned and she's already taken a step away.

"Oh."

She turns; he holds out her KA-Bar.

"You might want this."

She just stares at him, part disbelieving and part furious. "When did you—"

"In the closet," he says cheerfully.

He tosses it at her—it's sheathed—end over end, and she catches it reflexively. After a moment, her expression softens and she nods in concession, because she has to admit she's been had.

" _Shalom_ ," she says simply, meeting his eyes for just a moment.

" _Shalom_ ," he answers.

Then she's gone, and he's watching her leave. He doesn't know if they'll run into one another again, but they both have access to databases that would let them track each other down if they need to. For now, he just swipes some of the salt off the rim of her glass.

 

 _Finis_.

 _Feedback is always appreciated_.


End file.
